hurts to heal [sam/dean][s/a]
Title: Hurts to Heal
Pairing/Character(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Summary: A short attempt to recap the first three years.
Warning: What comes with Sam/Dean? Yeah, that's warning enough.
Beta: theamberkennedy
Word Count: 1,000~
A/N: This sort of just happened.
Kisses in alleys. Don’t let yourself get caught.
Who is he?
Isn’t sure.
Maybe he’s not supposed to know.
Everything blurs. Alcohol, or something. Sam looks different this way. Smaller, more touchable. He fucks him in the backseat. Feels the way he stretches and arches and doesn’t care, can’t think.
Oh.
Maybe he shouldn’t have.
But inside he feels so right. Okay. Fixed.
The feeling never lasts.
“Touch me,” Sam begs, presses up close, kisses Dean. Dean kisses back. Guilt.
Oh.
Breaths. Heavy tension. Words like knives.
Dad.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sam snaps. Always so quick to change his pace. He needs somewhere else to go, some way to get out. “Fuck you, Dean.”
Dad’s eyes on Dean. Between his sons. He doesn’t know anything’s wrong. Sam reaches out and squeezes Dean’s arm.
Kiss, kiss. Between mouthfuls of air, kiss until your mouth is sore. Dean grows used to it.
Whiskey in the bedroom. Fuck him against the sink, make him lose his breath. Don’t let him get away.
“Shh, shh, Sammy.” Comfort. Touch him and make him okay. He’s already so broken.
Death.
“Dad’s dead, Dean.” Like it’s something he doesn’t know.
“Hey, get me another beer.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?” Always so terse. Dean glowers, Sam responds. Hands him the beer. Handles his own in a way that makes Dean’s entire body go rigid. Swallows, moves his throat.
Dean leaves his own beer half empty and pushes Sam onto the bed. Mouth on his neck, around his cock. Come on, come on, come on.
Embrace, warm.
Release.
Come on.
Move, move. Don’t - wait, you need to stop. Just don’t do this.
“Oh, Dean.” Soft, so simple, keeps him grounded. Long fingers, dark eyes, sadness. How does he feel so much? He shouldn’t be able to feel like this.
And then it should be numbness because what, he’s drunk, he can touch and feel but he can’t feel too much because by then he just wants to give up. “Fuck, fuck,” mutters from beneath him, oh, he wants this, he wants this more than anything, it burns but he doesn’t care and shit (he hates himself, everything he is). Forget faster, make me fall. “Dean.” Why is Sam always saying his name? He’s not special.
Just another broken figment. He’s part of this world which could easily be someone’s fucked up imagination.
Nothing special.
He drowns himself in Sam, in his body, in his mouth, in his words because Sam’s words and his mouth and his body and he is magic, he is all there is and Dean doesn’t want to look away for fear of losing sight.
So he twists, he turns, he shakes, he lets Sam hold his hips and he gasps out his name. This is okay, this is normal. This isn’t his brother, isn’t his cock. These aren’t his hands gripping his hips, keeping him floating away, this is something different and unique and new and Dean can pretend, Dean’s always been the best at pretending.
Gaze. Snap. Back to the way you used to be. Rolling onto motel beds, the squeak sound and the rush of water from the shower. Fill in your rhythm, over and over again, don’t forget to stand up straight, to save the innocents, to save the ones who aren’t innocent. Drive until your lungs give out, don’t ever scream though, don’t let them know how fucking terrified you are because it might swallow you whole. He doesn’t have anything, there’s nothing, just Sam. Can’t let Sammy go, don’t disappear, I would sell my soul for you, I really would.
His head, all jumbled, thoughts - he doesn’t really think.
Take me instead.
Oh, he’s not right.
Sam’s anger, push him against a wall, dull thump, the way his head hits the thin plaster, he could get fucked like this, maybe he will. Sam rutting against him, swearing, cursing, “Don’t leave me all alone,” but Dean is just selfish enough to do it, to leave. Oh, Sammy, he doesn’t know a thing. He never knew family.
Run, run, get out of here.
He gasps, rocks into Sam’s body - clothes, get rid of them, his thoughts are outside of his head, everything blurs, he’s not drunk but he should be. He can’t help it, he feels Sam slide easily into him, fuck fuck fuck, wraps his legs around his brother, clings to his back, fuck against the wall, no one can hear you now. Bite down hard, draw blood, he can taste Sam in his mouth and it’s almost good enough. Tainted, he could be tainted too, someone let him taste, let him feel again.
Make everything quiet again. You’re okay, always such simple promises. We’ll save you.
Like they’d save Dad, maybe.
Like they’d save all the people they couldn’t, they spit lies, they pretend like they can live without each other, they disappear and reappear and Dean hates himself for it. He still has to kiss though, has to feel, pretend like it’s real. The rough press of Sammy’s tongue in his mouth and then down his back. Sam gives him what he needs, all the things he could never admit to a stranger.
Fuck me, fuck me until I cry. And sometimes he does, and Sam doesn’t even stop then, maybe he’s just so angry and broken and small and sometimes Sam doesn’t even come, maybe he’s just that messed up.
Sleep, wake up, coffee, drive. Repeat.
Make it a rhythm, make it work.
Dean can’t take it. He needs to bleed but he’s scared. “Save me, Sammy.” Salvation in your brother, the one who jacks off to pictures of you in the shower, the one who sometimes cries when he fucks you now, the one who touches you, knows how breakable you are.
“I can’t.” No more promises, no more lies, let me go and Dean wants to leave so bad. He can’t stand it. What if they come back and nothing’s okay?
Not that anything was okay beforehand. But at least Dean could close his eyes on Earth and take sleeping pills.
Pairing/Character(s): Sam/Dean
Rating: R
Summary: A short attempt to recap the first three years.
Warning: What comes with Sam/Dean? Yeah, that's warning enough.
Beta: theamberkennedy
Word Count: 1,000~
A/N: This sort of just happened.
Kisses in alleys. Don’t let yourself get caught.
Who is he?
Isn’t sure.
Maybe he’s not supposed to know.
Everything blurs. Alcohol, or something. Sam looks different this way. Smaller, more touchable. He fucks him in the backseat. Feels the way he stretches and arches and doesn’t care, can’t think.
Oh.
Maybe he shouldn’t have.
But inside he feels so right. Okay. Fixed.
The feeling never lasts.
“Touch me,” Sam begs, presses up close, kisses Dean. Dean kisses back. Guilt.
Oh.
Breaths. Heavy tension. Words like knives.
Dad.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Sam snaps. Always so quick to change his pace. He needs somewhere else to go, some way to get out. “Fuck you, Dean.”
Dad’s eyes on Dean. Between his sons. He doesn’t know anything’s wrong. Sam reaches out and squeezes Dean’s arm.
Kiss, kiss. Between mouthfuls of air, kiss until your mouth is sore. Dean grows used to it.
Whiskey in the bedroom. Fuck him against the sink, make him lose his breath. Don’t let him get away.
“Shh, shh, Sammy.” Comfort. Touch him and make him okay. He’s already so broken.
Death.
“Dad’s dead, Dean.” Like it’s something he doesn’t know.
“Hey, get me another beer.”
“Don’t you think you’ve had enough already?” Always so terse. Dean glowers, Sam responds. Hands him the beer. Handles his own in a way that makes Dean’s entire body go rigid. Swallows, moves his throat.
Dean leaves his own beer half empty and pushes Sam onto the bed. Mouth on his neck, around his cock. Come on, come on, come on.
Embrace, warm.
Release.
Come on.
Move, move. Don’t - wait, you need to stop. Just don’t do this.
“Oh, Dean.” Soft, so simple, keeps him grounded. Long fingers, dark eyes, sadness. How does he feel so much? He shouldn’t be able to feel like this.
And then it should be numbness because what, he’s drunk, he can touch and feel but he can’t feel too much because by then he just wants to give up. “Fuck, fuck,” mutters from beneath him, oh, he wants this, he wants this more than anything, it burns but he doesn’t care and shit (he hates himself, everything he is). Forget faster, make me fall. “Dean.” Why is Sam always saying his name? He’s not special.
Just another broken figment. He’s part of this world which could easily be someone’s fucked up imagination.
Nothing special.
He drowns himself in Sam, in his body, in his mouth, in his words because Sam’s words and his mouth and his body and he is magic, he is all there is and Dean doesn’t want to look away for fear of losing sight.
So he twists, he turns, he shakes, he lets Sam hold his hips and he gasps out his name. This is okay, this is normal. This isn’t his brother, isn’t his cock. These aren’t his hands gripping his hips, keeping him floating away, this is something different and unique and new and Dean can pretend, Dean’s always been the best at pretending.
Gaze. Snap. Back to the way you used to be. Rolling onto motel beds, the squeak sound and the rush of water from the shower. Fill in your rhythm, over and over again, don’t forget to stand up straight, to save the innocents, to save the ones who aren’t innocent. Drive until your lungs give out, don’t ever scream though, don’t let them know how fucking terrified you are because it might swallow you whole. He doesn’t have anything, there’s nothing, just Sam. Can’t let Sammy go, don’t disappear, I would sell my soul for you, I really would.
His head, all jumbled, thoughts - he doesn’t really think.
Take me instead.
Oh, he’s not right.
Sam’s anger, push him against a wall, dull thump, the way his head hits the thin plaster, he could get fucked like this, maybe he will. Sam rutting against him, swearing, cursing, “Don’t leave me all alone,” but Dean is just selfish enough to do it, to leave. Oh, Sammy, he doesn’t know a thing. He never knew family.
Run, run, get out of here.
He gasps, rocks into Sam’s body - clothes, get rid of them, his thoughts are outside of his head, everything blurs, he’s not drunk but he should be. He can’t help it, he feels Sam slide easily into him, fuck fuck fuck, wraps his legs around his brother, clings to his back, fuck against the wall, no one can hear you now. Bite down hard, draw blood, he can taste Sam in his mouth and it’s almost good enough. Tainted, he could be tainted too, someone let him taste, let him feel again.
Make everything quiet again. You’re okay, always such simple promises. We’ll save you.
Like they’d save Dad, maybe.
Like they’d save all the people they couldn’t, they spit lies, they pretend like they can live without each other, they disappear and reappear and Dean hates himself for it. He still has to kiss though, has to feel, pretend like it’s real. The rough press of Sammy’s tongue in his mouth and then down his back. Sam gives him what he needs, all the things he could never admit to a stranger.
Fuck me, fuck me until I cry. And sometimes he does, and Sam doesn’t even stop then, maybe he’s just so angry and broken and small and sometimes Sam doesn’t even come, maybe he’s just that messed up.
Sleep, wake up, coffee, drive. Repeat.
Make it a rhythm, make it work.
Dean can’t take it. He needs to bleed but he’s scared. “Save me, Sammy.” Salvation in your brother, the one who jacks off to pictures of you in the shower, the one who sometimes cries when he fucks you now, the one who touches you, knows how breakable you are.
“I can’t.” No more promises, no more lies, let me go and Dean wants to leave so bad. He can’t stand it. What if they come back and nothing’s okay?
Not that anything was okay beforehand. But at least Dean could close his eyes on Earth and take sleeping pills.